


Slipped the Bonds of Earth

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Getting Together, Historical, London, M/M, Moon Landing, Post scene - Soho 1967, Prompt Fic, Romance, Space Race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: Demons shouldn't dream. But then, what are the humans doing if not dreaming? Leaving home before they can be cast out; leaving for someplace unknown, unwelcoming. Crowley's seen enough old maps marked 'here be dragons;' the ones they're using are simply 'here be someplace else.'He is a damned and a broken thing, but perhaps tonight, while the world is waiting, he can borrow their courage.It is 1969 and Crowley watches the Apollo 11 launch. Maybe things can be different for him and Aziraphale now.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 71
Collections: Week 18: Perfect Excuse





	Slipped the Bonds of Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Moony Mistress (moonymistress)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonymistress/gifts).



> An awfully long time ago, Moonymistress posted a prompt that went something like 'What a perfect excuse to close the shop.' Here is a very, very late fill. 
> 
> I did a fair amount of research for this, but not enough. (The historian in me says 'never enough'.) Any historical errors are entirely my fault! 
> 
> Title is slightly altered from the beautiful poem 'High Flight' by John Gillespie Magee.

He loves humans. Someone, he loves them. 

Crowley pads barefoot through his flat, listening to the radio and brushing his hair out of his eyes. David Bowie keeps him company while he makes coffee and doesn't drink it. 

The papers and the TV agree. The headlines are hopeful. Full of dreams. 

'Stardust,' he mutters to himself and grins. 

The flat feels too small. He paces as best as he can. It feels like his blood's fizzing, something that's between joy and expectation. 

'They've actually done it,' he says a few hours later, watching the launch. It's never occurred to Crowley that his recently installed TV wouldn't be capable of picking up American TV, so he gets a fairly decent rely from NBC. 

Apollo roars. Breathes fire, wreathes itself in flame and slips its bounds of earth. His wings ache, itch to stretch out and fly; he finds himself suddenly envious of the men inside, leaving this world. He can taste and feel the starlight they'll be able to see. 

And yet...And yet... He watches them until there's nothing for even demonic eyes to see, and goes to stand at his window, gazing up for them. 

There's been men in rockets before. They'd been a night in the 50's when he wasn't sure he was high enough to cope with the idea of Laika; when he'd found himself at once proud and sickened by what was happening. There's been nights when he's driving out somewhere quiet and watched the lights moving, and if that had occasionally required a demonic miracle, well...

Crowley doesn't think he's ever spoken the words 'space travel' aloud. 

Who in Hell would be interested? Or not in Hell, for that matter.

He spends another hour watching the stars, watching history slip past. Half frantic with the joy of it all. 

Maybe...

No.

'Maybe' is dangerous. 'Maybe' is hope, and longing, and the stuff of his dreams, where Aziraphale no longer thinks he's going too fast. 

Demons shouldn't dream. 

But then, what are the humans doing if not dreaming?

Leaving home before they can be cast out; leaving for someplace unknown, unwelcoming. He's seen enough old maps marked 'here be dragons;' the ones they're using are simply 'here be someplace else.'

He is a damned and a broken thing, not a star sailor, but perhaps tonight, while the world is waiting, he can borrow their courage. 

It's a short drive. Kids are playing in the street; he can hear them proclaiming their names. Neil and Buzz and Michael. Maybe he's going too fast but then, all the humans are at the moment. 

He knocks because he's too nervous to speak. Stands at the door instead of going inside because suddenly his legs don't want to listen to him. 

'We're closed,' Aziraphale shouts, and it's the first time he's heard the angel's voice since, well, since then, and the heart he doesn't need soars. 

'You're always closed,' he shouts back. 

'Crowley? Come in.'

He does, and it's as if nothing has changed. The shop feels the same, smells the same, and most importantly, Aziraphale is looking at him just the same. Fondly, if surprised. 

The world shudders to a halt for a moment; Aziraphale stares at him and smiles. Crowley's been grinning since he watched the news, but he smiles back any way. Finds he's standing there with a hand in his hair, twisting it around his fingers. 

'Angel.'

A rainy night in Soho doesn't feel so very long ago - it isn't in human terms, let alone theirs - and he remembers the kindness with which Aziraphale had handed him the flask. He studies the so well known - well loved, he can admit that to himself - face and acknowledges there's no animosity there. 

They're good. 

Aziraphale looks away, a tiny gesture that has no right to claw across Crowley's heart like it does. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing. I just...' he's twisting his hair almost frantically now. 'Wanted to see you.'

'Oh...How lovely,' and it sounds honest, warm. 'In that case, can I get you a drink?'

'Wine?' That's always been their drink, ever since the Ark. He can see it lasting to the end of the world, him and Aziraphale and a bottle of wine between them. 

'Of course.'

Crowley follows him into the back, bites down his gasp as their fingers touch when Aziraphale hands him a glass. Flops onto what always used to be his spot, although the armchair has been replaced by a sofa with a red blanket on it. Comfortable, more suited to someone with legs like his. 

'I thought you'd like it.'

'What, the wine?' He hasn't touched it yet; it's a red, it smells good. That's enough.

'No, the sofa. I thought you'd like it.'

If demons were allowed to acknowledge their dreams, Crowley would have confessed something like that would have been near the top of his list. Aziraphale thinking of him, Aziraphale buying something he'd like even when they weren't talking. As though he was wanted. 

'I do like it.'

Aziraphale raises his glass; Crowley copies the gesture. There's an awkward silence and then Aziraphale says simply 'I missed you.' Crowley drinks for long enough that there isn't a chance of Aziraphale seeing his eyes, even though they're hidden by his glasses. 

They chat for a few minutes before Aziraphale asks directly 'was there something?'

'Yeah. The humans...' he swirls the wine around, looking at the red and crimson patterns it makes against the glass. The humans had made all this; made all the books Aziraphale so loves, made his Bentley. Cleverer than anything that ever came from Heaven or Hell. 

'The humans have got a rocket up. They're landing on the moon in a few days.'

Aziraphale gives him a delighted smile. 'I know! Isn't it marvellous, what they're doing?'

'I thought...would you mind, I wondered would you like to watch the landing with me?' 

There's a silence that's just long enough for him to start doubting, wondering if he ought to backtrack or apologise, but surely it's not too much to ask for? Just a few hours spent together, sharing something no-one else could understand. 

'I'd love that, Crowley. It sounds like a perfect excuse to close the shop for a few days, but...I would very much like to spend some time with you as well.'

Demons don't need hearts, and Crowley isn't sure why his needs to feel so full.

***

Aziraphale takes an un-angelic amount of glee in writing out a closed notice for the shop, and apparently an equal amount of glee in walking Crowley through Soho, talking almost non-stop. The neon lights are flared everywhere, car headlights catch them as they walk together. He feels like he's walking through stars. 

There's a cafe on a corner. The people there call Aziraphale by a different name, gaze at Crowley with doubtful eyes but smile when Aziraphale does, and he realises what they're assuming about them. It's a rare thing for a demon to be seen as worthy of love. 

So he looks at Aziraphale as he always wants to; openly, longingly. 

The humans understand enough to be happy for them, and he lets himself believe the city-lit fantasy for a while. He loves Aziraphale. He's seen empires built on lesser foundations, after all. 

Later, much later, they stroll down to the park. The darkness, the lateness doesn't matter to them, after all. If Crowley tears himself away from the reality which is currently Aziraphale ragging him about his haircut 'really, Crowley, it looks even more like a mop than last time I saw you,' he can look back through time, through memories he'd edged with stardust and see himself walking with Aziraphale in London so many times before. 

They'd been here when it was wooden houses around a fishing port; when the Romans called it Londinium. He'd stood alongside Aziraphale and raged as they'd helped the remaining humans pull open great earthen pits at Charterhouse to lie the bodies in, and in Whitehall watching the flames race down from Pudding Lane. They'd heard Big Ben strike for the first time on one of their walks. So much of their past; and as he watches Aziraphale walking past the river, he lets himself believe they've got a future as well. 

'Why with me?' Aziraphale asks suddenly. 

Crowley hesitates. Glances upwards as though that's enough of an answer. The lights have smeared themselves against the sky, blocked out all his stars but they're there. Ever present in the same way Aziraphale is. 

'Why did you come and find me the first time they managed to make a wheel and stick it on something?'

'Because I wanted you to see how clever they were. And...it wasn't like Heaven would listen.'

He nods. Rubs his hands together because they need to be occupied before he reached out through the years of memories and the two foot distance between them now and touchs Aziraphale. 

'Do you remember how excited you were with the printing press? It's the...this is the same thing, angel. It's going to change everything and nobody in Hell cares. If they get this right, they'll go off somewhere that Hell can't reach them, even. They'll be gone. All of them, safe in the stars.'

Aziraphale looks up from studying the water. Crowley can't read his expression. 'You think they'd be able to escape that easily?'

'Sure of it,' and he is, somehow. Heaven and Hell only want the Earth. They don't really care about what's on it. 

'I'm...glad you asked me,' and Crowley lets himself pretend that he'd asked other questions. 

***

Of course Aziraphale hasn't got a TV. The dust flies around them both as Crowley snaps his fingers and makes space, suggests that the one he's got in his flat might care to find itself here and wired in. Aziraphale teases him. 

It doesn't hurt. 

The sun shines on London Town. The world ticks on. Crowley lounges on the sofa that's become his, with a cigarette between his teeth and a coffee cup in his hands and wonders who a demon ought to pray to, to give thanks to. 

There are three days, cut out from all their time on Earth. 

Three days to be together. 

They fracture down into minutes and seconds, into breaths that he doesn't need and sights he won't forget. Demon that he is, he steals them all. Takes what Aziraphale offers and hoards it, dragon greedy. 

The papers are hopeful. 

Aziraphale stacks them up. ('Honestly, Crowley, they'll burn them or use them to wrap fish and chips, I think someone ought to make sure they're keeping a proper record.')

Crowley wanders through the heaps of books that never made it onto the shelves, dragging his fingertips against the spines of leather, vellum, tatty paper. Imagines he can touch Aziraphale's hands, reaching back through time to let their hands meet; imagines running his hand across a spine made of bone and nerve rather than glue and ink. 

Quicksilver happiness, that they both hesitate to acknowledge in case it vanishes. But unacknowledged is not unappreciated. 

Crowley smiles. 

Aziraphale smiles. 

Apollo 11 travels beyond the reach of air, and the world watches so intently that an angel and a demon are left alone. 

***

David Bowie is on the radio when Aziraphale comes in, holding a bottle of wine and some sandwiches. 

'I think I know which way to go,' Crowley is singing along like he does at home, and he doesn't realise Aziraphale's heard him until it's too late. 

He carries on, because Aziraphale smiles at him and he's always been powerless against that. 

Aziraphale settles next to him on the sofa, waits until the song's finished before speaking. 'Shop's all shut up.'

'You did that a few days ago,' he points out. 

'I was able to write an extra closed notice and put it up. That was good. Is there anything else we want?'

Crowley glances around the room, noticing all the little changes Aziraphale's made for the evening. The fire is new in here, ancient in terms of their friendship. He's seen the angel halo-ed by firelight in Mesopotamia and Athens, Persia and the steppes, but not in this little room that suddenly feels like a home. 

There's tea and a blanket that looks more red and black than anything he's ever seen Aziraphale with, and an orrery made from gold and gems nestled on the desk. The moon in it flashes emerald green in the firelight. The TV flickers in black and white static. Patrick Moore is talking. 

If Crowley's throat feels tight, it's because he's nervous for the humans so far away now. There's never been humans threatening to escape Hell's reach before; he tells himself it's that. Nothing to do with this clear offer of companionship. 

'No, angel,' he says truthfully. 'Nothing else I want.'

They watch in almost silence after that. The clock ticks absently until Crowley snaps his fingers and it shuts up. Talking switches to live broadcasting switches to a countdown and his skin feels too tight, his blood too fast. 

It's happening. 

The lunar module lands. 

Aziraphale reaches out. 

Somewhere outside the world, a door opens. 

Crowley reaches back. 

Across Earth, people hold their breath. Perhaps it's the stillest, most anticipatory moment there's ever been. 

Aziraphale's fingers are warm around his. 

A man walks on the moon. 

An angel pulls a demon close. 

Let's leave them there, stepping out into the new world waiting for them.


End file.
